Tradition
by born30
Summary: It feels like an invitation, in a way that the others have not. The others were gifts, clearly meant for her alone to use or not. This…this is a summoning. A Tiva Thanksgiving one-shot.


_**Disclaimer: **__NCIS is not mine. Clearly.  
><em>_**A/N: **__Happy Thanksgiving, Tiva fans!_

Year after year, the letter arrived punctually in the last week of November.

Two, perhaps three days before American Thanksgiving, give or take the time it required for the aging Schmeil to forward it onto its rightful destination. It was always the same: a simple ivory envelope; no note; just one glossy slice of cardstock. A ticket. And it was always for Puccini.

He remembered well.

Ziva would stand in her apartment or hotel room or the house of some old friend—in Moscow, Florence, Budapest, Cartagena, wherever she happened to be passing through at that moment—and glide slender fingers under the seal, ripping the lip back for the feather-light contents to tumble free, a belated autumn leaf fluttering into the pile of memories at her feet.

Often, she was tempted.

Though she never ceased honoring her late sister's birthday, Ziva _had_ ceased living a normal life, a steady 9-to-5 life (or 9-to-whenever-the-case-was-solved, as it sometimes was on Team Gibbs). A life that allowed for tradition and holiday. Now she was a ghost, belonging to no one and nowhere, haunting the realms she once invaded, cultivated, ruled. The opera was simply not feasible.

But when the letter arrives, like clockwork, two days into that particular last week of November, she does not stand in place. She carries it with her to the coffee & pastry shop down the street from her hotel, and while the noise and colors of the Rio street bump up to her table-for-one on the sidewalk, the letter executes it own variation to the rule.

Not one but two tickets are inside the small post. Still there is no note, though what kind of former investigator would she be if the subtlest of clues evaded her notice?

It feels like an invitation, in a way that the others have not. The others were gifts, clearly meant for her alone to use or not. This…this is a summoning.

All along, her pulse has been sprinting from the running, running, running she's done, but it cannot compare to the thumping of her heart now, a percussion of warning and thrill at the prospect of finally running _back_ instead of _away_.

And for the first time since the letters started following her around the globe, she doesn't think.

She replies.

The Grand Foyer of The Kennedy Center is amply spacious, but still the lush, scarlet rugs are obscured by thousands of well-dressed guests, of which Ziva is one, her black silk sheath snug in all the right places. She wears no jewelry as usual, with her dark hair straightened sleek down over her bare shoulders. Second thoughts shoot through her mind with every passing minute spent alone, her body stagnant amidst the mingling crowd on the north end of the mile-long hallway. Her damp palms have already warped her program for _Gianni Schicchi_.

She is early, yes, and should give him more time…if the second ticket was indeed what she'd speculated. What if she'd been wrong? What if he had never planned to attend with her and it was simply an extra ticket?

Ziva scolds herself for being so…presumptuous and turns to make a stealthy escape—

Her feet halt.

The tux. The sandy coif. The knit of concentration woven into his brow. For a second, she thinks he is approaching her from inside the Opera House, and then quickly realizes it is his reflection in one of the majestic lobby's floor-to-ceiling mirrors. She swivels around as his mirage becomes real.

"There you are," he says, all anxiety dissipating from his handsome face. A broad, warm hand takes ownership of her elbow as his lips brush her cheek, expelling hot whispers over her skin: "Hey, stranger."

Eyelids closing, Ziva breaths in soap and pine and the distinct musk that is purely… "Tony," she exhales.

Soft chuckles, and then he steps back, his sharp features feigning doubt. "And you're Ziva, right? I've been sending letters to a woman by that name for the past few years. Kinda like _84 Charing Cross Road_ meets—"

"Tony," she interrupts before he can get going, and she truly believes the prize of his dazzling smile alone worth braving last-minute holiday travel from Brazil to D.C.

It might not have been the type of grand reunion that only seemed to happen in Tony's beloved movies, but it was their way. A quiet affair. And there was an ease between them, like that of old acquaintances who parted on the best of terms, rather than the tearful separation in their own screenplay.

For that, she is thankful.

A short gasp slips through her rosy lips. "But it is Thanksgiving, Tony"—(she could not stop herself from saying his name)—"do you not have other plans? With the team or—"

"Don't worry. They're saving us some turkey and stuffing." Tony slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers, rocking gently on his heels, clearly relishing her surprise. "Ziva, I've been waiting years for this. I'm exactly where I need to be."

Hazelnut eyes narrowed. "All these years…you were waiting for me?"

"Oh, yeah." It comes out on a laugh, but there is longing in the rush of distance he crosses to her; and relief in his touch, its weight grounding her again, bringing her back to this life, this steady 9-to-5 life of holiday and tradition. "You're worth the wait, _mon Zee-va_."

With a hand to his chest, she pauses the descent of his mouth to hers. "I want to thank you for…I have not been to the opera for her—Tali—in…well, it has been too long."

"I figured." His fingertips caress a wayward strand of hair off her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. "But you're here now. That's all that matters."

"Yes," she agrees, stretching up to him for a long-awaited embrace he is all too eager to give her—right in the middle of the crowded hall, on a night of remembrance and gratitude.

It is the perfect beginning to a new tradition, one all their own.


End file.
